The Dec. 6, 1989 Press-Telegram had an article about a wartime “attack” that stirred Downey. This was an article by columnist Milburn Gibbs, a businessman and Downey resident.

As the story starts, Arvin MacCauley was working the graveyard shift at the South Gate Defense factory when he and his mates ran outside when the noise began. Gordon Madru was a kid and it awakened him from a sound sleep; Grace McCarthy was giving her infant son his 2 a.m. feeding when all hell broke loose.

It was Feb. 25, 1942, the day Downey thought armageddon was unfolding. Anti-aircraft guns blazed away at “unidentified flying objects” — presumably Japanese planes. Following is what really happened on the night Los Angeles became the first -- and only -- mainland U.S. city to be attacked in World War II.

Well, almost attacked.

The Los Angeles Daily News story of Feb. 25 read: “World War II plopped down on Los Angeles’ doorstep today with a reported visit from a score of unidentified planes and a welcoming committee of dozens of anti-aircraft guns in full action…”

The Downey Live-Wire echoed, “Downey and a wide area of the coast area experienced its first general blackout and anti-aircraft action early Wednesday morning on orders from the Army’s western defense command. No bombs were dropped and no airplanes were shot down…”

Folks around Downey were understandably nervous on that February night. Pearl Harbor was only a couple of months before, and one could not know what subterfuge the Japanese might try. There were two batteries of anti-aircraft guns in Downey — one at Sixth Street and Paramount Boulevard, and another at Vultee Aircraft Co., at Lakewood Boulevard and Stewart & Gray Road.

The Paramount Boulevard guns were encased in a house with a retractable roof -- real high tech for the time. They were manned by Battery D, brave New York and New Jersey lads who were to defend us ably.

Jack Cook’s home was only three blocks from this installation and the house rattled during the night of infamy that was to follow. The liquor store beside the gun emplacement is said to have lost much of its virgin nector to the concrete floor that night.

About 2:30 a.m., a plane or planes of unknown origin were reported sighted and guns from San Pedro to Beverly Hills began to blaze. Thousands of rounds pierced the night sky. Tracers lighted the dark and babies clear to Los Angeles cried.

Air raid wardens and block wardens swung immediately into action. They directed traffic away from the gun emplacements, causing a traffic jam of sorts at Lakewood and Firestone boulevards. They diverted traffic away from the likely target: Vultee Aircraft.

In those days, everyone cooperated. Well, most did, and few who didn’t were soon sternly made aware of their patriotic stance and were contrite, the paper said.

News was very much censored during the war. News of great Allied-American victories at Corregidor and Guadalcanal were trumpeted in every paper. The War Department never did admit what really happened the day Downey went to war — one American weather balloon was mistaken for the armada of zeroes.

One other piece of evidence that came out long after the war: there was a Japanese submarine — the I-17 — operating off our coast that night, which did have the capability of launching a float plane. Later we learned that the I-17 went down in the South Pacific in 1943, her crew and logs lost for all time.

The War Department said later there were probably no enemy aircraft within 5,000 miles of Downey or her besieged neighbors that fateful night.

Around dawn, zone and post wardens were given the all clear and a much shaken group of Downeyites tried to re-group and resume their lives.

For more information on this topic, please visit the Downey History Center.

I was seven years old, and this incident of nearly 75 years ago is as “clear as a bell” in my memory today. The date was April 12, 1945.

School let out. It was raining, so I grabbed my raincoat from the cloak room and ran the half-mile home as fast as I could to get ahead of the coming downpour. When I arrived home, (and this was before dad’s do-it-yourself-remodel), I found mom in the kitchen at the old-fashioned built-in-the-wall ironing board. She was crying as she ironed.

I seldom saw mom cry, and it concerned me, so I asked her what was the matter. She replied: “Honey, President Roosevelt died.”

Mom highly respected his leadership qualities that brought the country through two of its greatest crises, the Great Depression and World War II. Sadly, he died just before the surrender of Germany in World War ll.

Simply known as FDR, he was our 32nd president and longest serving in history of the office. He assumed the presidency at a time when Americans were looking for new ideas, leadership, and hope. When war broke out, he coined the phrase, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.”

In addition to his many fine qualities and the tough decisions he made, he was the first president since Abraham Lincoln to support black rights.

Rightly so, he remains in the annals of history as one of our greatest presidents and a true American hero.

Sharon Benson Smith is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

When I think about my life, I see certain snapshots, little glimpses or single-frame photos of different events.

They are like a Rolodex in my mind that I can call up at any moment. That event, frozen in time but there for the recall at any given whim. I have a library of theses snapshots.

Some fall into a comedy category that bring brand new giggles to me as I relive them. Some are dramatic or sad minutes from my past. Some scenes are so accurate in content that they can stir exact memories. If it is a painful moment from my past, just viewing that snapshot in my mind can bring on the exact tears that I shed in the past.

Some scenes are so joyous that just viewing it takes my mind to that happy moment. My reaction to reviewing that scene is the same exact emotion. It is not that I see the photo and think, "Oh, I must have been really happy then." It is more like, I see the photo and I immediately remember and relive how I felt and what I was thinking.

I consider myself very blessed to have this library of feelings. It is a huge library, open at all hours. Those moments that I have already lived are not gone. They are there just waiting to be recalled and enjoyed again. I enjoy thinking about how special this really is.

My life is so full. The moments and the memories I am living today are just new additions to my growing library of life.

My photos take no shelf space and use no film. It is a private library for my use only. It contains everything I have ever known. These photos are a big part of my life. They remind me of where I came from and keep me grateful. They teach me to be thankful for the life I have been given.

I love living in the present but I truly enjoy celebrating and remembering my past.

Life goes so fast. These snapshots in my mind help me to appreciate each day that I live.

Gail Earl is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

My mother’s name is Bette. She has always had a thing about being punctual.

Even as a child, I remember being taught never to be late for anything. My mother believed that and lived that. Even though she had four small children to get ready to go out, she always started the process very early, so never to run short of time.

This special allotment of extra time carried right through our adult lives. I'm not sure what she thought would happen, heaven forbid, were we ever late to anything, but I just knew it would never happen. Perhaps it was her "always be prepared for the unexpected" attitude that drove her.

As we children got a little older, we started referring to time as "real time" and "Bette time." “Bette time” meant that you give yourself an extra hour. Being on “Bette time,” you never miss a flight, never miss an opening curtain, never miss the start of anything.

Mom always had tables set hours before company would arrive, always had the food prepped and ready to go way before the actual time to cook.

For many years, we kids have kidded about “Bette time” but knew that to mom this was no joke. It was not optional for us.

Now, to a couple of her children, “Bette time” was a nightmare. Always having to be somewhere early was difficult. We were smart enough to know that this was something that she was unwilling to waver, so we did the best we could.

One of my funniest examples of “Bette time” happened in 1997. My mom, my sister-in-law, my two sisters and myself were traveling through Europe. It was a wonderful trip of five girls giggling their way through six countries. Because “Bette time” never rested, traveling with mom was, well, let’s just say an experience.

On our tour, we had to have our luggage outside our hotel room door by 6 a.m. (which meant 4 or 5 to her). Breakfast was at 7, which meant we were dressed and in the restaurant lobby at 6. In any given city, her pacing began before the tour guide arrived.

We often referred to “Bette time” and soon several of our traveling group began asking, “Is that Bette time or real time?"

While in London, we were having breakfast. We were to meet up with our group in the bus out front of the hotel at 7:30 a.m.

We were eating and everyone was enjoying discussing our day’s plan. Mom was getting so anxious about the time, you could just about see her quiver. She was chomping at the bit to get out to that bus, and couldn't sit another minute. She had to get out there and save our seats.

We were only about half way done eating when she got up and said she'd meet us on the bus. About 10 minutes later we went to the bus and found mom was not there. We couldn't imagine what could have happened. We piled off the bus and looked around and saw another bus down the drive way.

We ran to that bus laughing and thinking, "Oh great, we lost mom." We boarded the other bus and our eyes scanned every seat. Imagine our surprise when we saw about 70 African American women and our one little mother. One of the palest white women in the world, completely surrounded by an entire bus filled with a beautiful Baptist church group. I could be wrong, but I think I'd notice.

The funniest part was that Mom was so proud of being on “Bette time” and being in her seat early and ready to go that it never dawned on her that she might be on the wrong bus.

If we hadn't gone looking for her, I'm not sure how long she would have sat there. Well you can just imagine all the laughs we had about that. We vowed not to let her out of our sight again.

We still smile every time one of us mentions "Bette time."

Gail Earl is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

I remember sitting in kindergarten class at Our Lady of Perpetual Help School in 1983.

Ms. Frazier had a pretty smile and was very helpful. But I could not sit still. I could not focus nor did anything I was reading interest me, except Ms. Frazier and my coloring book. I drew a lot, mostly doodles, a lot of drawings but I was never focused on my actual homework. Eventually it was decided to hold me back a grade.

So, I repeated kindergarten. My second time in kindergarten was a little different. The teacher this time was Mrs. Richards. Her son was also in the classroom, but so was Marissa Z., and I couldn’t get my mind off of her. She couldn’t get her mind off of me.

My cousin Dennis was in the 8th grade at the time and he had a girlfriend named Susan. Susan used to love to come over and pick me up in the playground and play with me. It drove Marissa crazy, and I remember loving it.

All through my years at OLPH, I remember never being able to focus on much other than drawing, writing, reading, art and girls.

But one thing for sure that I was always interested in was the morning paper arriving outside in front of the garage. On Sundays it was the Press-Telegram or the Los Angeles Times.

I graduated from OLPH in 1992 and went on to St. John Bosco, where much of the lack of interest in school continued. Eventually I found myself in the public school system at Downey High School.

My interests became different at Downey High mostly because there was a lot more to do. I loved my typewriting class, the wood-working class and the architecture class, and there were a lot of girls. But every Friday what I looked forward to the most was the Downey Eagle.

In 1993, the Downey Eagle started showing up at our door. The Downey Eagle was the newspaper that my dad and I enjoyed the most. It featured stories from the local community, high school sports and advertising.

My brother and sister enjoyed the Los Angeles Times. My brother was really into sports and my sister into the entertainment section. But my dad and I really looked forward to the Eagle. It’s too bad that my grades couldn’t have been based on the articles of the Downey Eagle.

The Eagle continued to be published from 1993 until 2002. I graduated high school in 1996 and went on to miscellaneous adventures, but never really had a love for the papers that would arrive at our door.

The computer soon became the interest of the home, with random articles, dating sites, MySpace, and the occasional news pop-up or video games like Lemmings or DOOM.

Then one Friday morning in 2002, right before heading to my job, a shady-looking van turned the corner at Dolan Street and zoomed past my parents' house with the passenger window rolled down and a woman in the passenger seat. An arm slingshot out of the window and an object landed right at my feet. I picked it up and removed the rubber band and opened it up. My eyes opened with excitement.

It was the Downey Patriot!

My life once again was complete.

Michael Chirco is a Downey resident, community volunteer, and owner of the South Downey Facebook page.

When I was expecting my baby in 1958, my husband Ralph and I thought we were going to have a boy. We had decided to name him Daniel Steven.

So all those months we would pat my stomach and say “Little Daniel Steven.” We thought that since I was so huge, our boy would weigh at least eight pounds. When I went in to deliver six weeks early, I was surprised to have had two 4-pound baby girls.

My husband had gone home on the doctor’s advice, as my baby wasn’t expected to come for several more hours. But while Ralph was gone the babies came. The nurse had called him to come down but my babies were born before he arrived. Needless to say he was pretty shocked to find out he had two babies.

My husband called my mother to share the good news. He told her, “Helen had her baby.” She asked what sex it was.

“Guess,” he answered.

She said, “a boy.” Ralph said no. She then said, “Oh , a little girl. How nice.” Again Ralph said no.

There was complete silence on the phone line. Ralph said, “Mother, are you still there?” She knew that there were only two choices – a male or a female, so what could it be?

Finally she managed to ask, “Well, WHAT DID she have?” Ralph blurted out, “Twin girls!” My mother let out the most excited squeal. She was ecstatic!

A few weeks after the birth, I received a bill from my doctor. He charged me an extra $50 for the delivery because of the extra baby.

My 75-year-old mother was still working as a registered nurse throughout my pregnancy. She retired the day my twins were born to help me to take care of them. She managed to live until my girls were nine years old.

Helen Hampton is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

Now that I’m almost 83, I love to see, talk, or be with my family. I love to get up a with a lot of sunshine, have my coffee early in the morning with my lovely little Honey and Lucas, my miniature Yorkie’s, and two cats, Birthday and Peanut. They all greet me with love and adoration, I love them all.

It also makes me happy to see all or even a few of my flowers greeting me. They’re so pretty and full of life. I guess I like the mornings the best.

I also like to play bridge with my friends, have lunch and be with them, go to my writing classes, be among a bunch of nice people, and work on my memoirs I like to write and finish before it’s too late!

I love to see my daughter coming home from work. She brings her little Yorky Lucas before she goes to work and picks him up after work. We often watch a program on TV, have dinner, and just talk some. She often takes me out to eat at various restaurants. It really makes me happy if I can ride with her to family and/or other parties or outings. She lives the closest to me, she is always kind, but doesn’t always agrees with me which is OK, too.

I also love to be with my son’s family, I love his children and they love me too. I’m also happy when I see Beatrix, my other daughter — she helps me with my computer. I really appreciate that, she’s patient and doesn’t get frustrated with me. And of course I love to be with all my other family.

I love to go to places, see my faraway family. Explore their surroundings. Go on cruises, even though I feel that I’m getting too old for that now. I’ve been on many cruises and have traveled to many other countries. I would still go with a loving member or, if I had an older friend or friends, but it has to be on a slower pace.

Maria Zeeman is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

This statement was made relevant to me when I worked as a nurse’s aide at Villa Elena Convalescent Hospital in Norwalk.

I learned many life lessons there I don’t believe I could have learned anywhere else from people fragile in spirit and/or body.

When I began working at the hospital, I focused on the patient’s physical needs to the best of my abilities, which many times had to be done quickly in order for them to be ready for meals, showers and therapy sessions. I was told at my evaluation meeting with the head nurse that she was pleased with my efficiency. I wore that like a badge of honor. That is until one of my patient’s, Mr. Roberts, taught me an important lesson.

He was a man in his 90’s, with steel blue eyes, a strong jaw line, a full head of white hair and a dimple in the middle of his chin that reminded me of the iconic film actor Robert Mitchum.

I was informed by the nurse that Mr. Roberts was not eating regularly. She instructed me to make sure he complied, before his family came to visit. I walked in with my game face on and asked what his problem was. Mr. Roberts looked at me and stated that just because he was confined to his wheelchair, his mind was not.

He said, “You look like a reasonable person. Go look at the frames on the wall.”

I walked to the framed certificates. I was stunned to learn he’d been an assistant professor at M.I.T. before completing his Ph.D. at Harvard and awarded the distinction of Harvard University professor.

For the first time, I saw him as a person whose mind was intact, though his body was a contradiction. I turned to look at him.

“I’m sorry if I have offended you,” I told him. “While I’m on duty, I will go to the kitchen whenever you are ready for something to eat.” He smiled and asked that I wait until after visiting hours.

“Not a problem,” I replied with a smile of my own.

Maria, another person on my floor, taught me how to enjoy life regardless of the circumstances. She was a double amputee; she lost both her legs to diabetes. She had bright red hair and a personality to match. She was optimistic and effervescent.

Whenever the call for bingo in the dining area was announced, she’d put her wheelchair in gear and race to get her favorite table. I asked her how she managed to be so cheerful. She simply stated, “It’s a choice, honey!”

Those encounters forever changed how I cared for and interacted with the residents. I started to have real conversations with them; allowing me to learn from their life experiences and I think I’m a better person for the opportunity to listen to them as I attended to their physical well being.

Yolanda Adele is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

There’s something about things from the past that just call to me, and I cherish any remembered glimpses of Mom, Granddad White and Aunt Gerry.

Long before we came to know him as Granddad White, he was stepdad to our mom and “unky” (an endearment for uncle) to Aunt Gerry. Bea and Gerry got along famously right from the beginning when they were just kids and Aunt Gerry would visit her unky from Alabama where he lived in Imperial, California.

Granddad White was the world’s biggest tease (as we six Benson kids would learn in later years), and you never wanted to give him any fodder, as he would never let you live it down. And, although his teasing was done in a loving and very affectionate manner, it was still embarrassing and to the hilt or the 9th degree!

It just so happened that on one of her summertime visits, Mom and Aunt Gerry had to use the outhouse, and decided to “sit together.” As teenagers often do, they got to talking and sharing and giggling, and they fell into the mire.

Their first thought was to somehow escape Granddad White seeing them as they walked across the lawn, arms set apart, dripping in “it” from head to toe! But, escaping his “eagle eye” was not in the cards, as just at that moment he happened to be walking by! Yes, he came, he saw, he teased them on the spot, and he would tease them long afterward about their “twosome dip” into the bottom of the outhouse.

He would repeat the story in later years to we six Benson kids, plus Aunt Gerry’s three, and everyone who would listen knew that Mom and Aunt Gerry had fallen into the outhouse together when they were young teenagers!

I recall the last time the incident was talked about was at the 34th Benson Family Reunion in September 2011. That would be the last reunion Aunt Gerry attended before her passing at the age of 97 in 2012. She never missed the annual event, and the Bea Benson Award was created in 1986 to specifically commemorate the high regard and affection felt for her by the Benson family.

We still talk about her wonderful “Southern cooking”, and how we looked forward each year, at reunion time, to her delicious (grand size) homemade cinnamon rolls and her to-die-for-lemonade that were sure to grace our potluck table.

The subject of the outhouse incident and what happened that long ago teenage summer day still brought back chuckles and glimpses of three beloved family members…Mom, Granddad White and Aunt Gerry.

Yolanda Adele is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

On the way to my doctor’s office on a cold November morning, I used a detour due to road construction. I slowly drove through an alley when I noticed a man sitting on the concrete. His legs were stretched out in front of him. His feet were swollen, bulging out of his lace-less shoes. I could not tell how old he was. He wore a brown tattered jacket. His hair was thick and matted.

I stopped my car and rolled down my window. He looked at me as though he were trying to recognize me. I don’t know why, but I smiled at him. He forced a weak smile. It was evident that he was homeless by the dirty blankets piled behind his back. I had the urge to give him money though he did not ask for any. I looked at his feet; it was apparent that it would be difficult for him to get up to go find a place to buy food.

It was a crisp morning. I asked him if he’d like a cup of hot coffee and something to eat. He just looked at me with a vulnerable expression. At that moment I literally felt my heart ache. Fighting back tears, the lump in my throat was painful. My emotions took me by surprise. I had seen homeless people many times before and though I felt sorry for them, I was never affected like this. “Why now?,” I asked myself.

Apologetically, I said, goodbye to the stranger and prayed that my doctor visit wouldn’t take too long.

In the waiting room, I felt anxious as if I had another pending appointment or as if I had to pick up a child soon after the last school bell rang. I sat in the waiting room clasping my hands in an attempt to calm myself.

After my appointment, I found a McDonald’s and purchased coffee and a meal. I drove to the ally and found the stranger. He was lying on his side on the ground. I parked my car and walked over to him. He slowly rose to a sitting position. He had a handkerchief in his hand he used to wipe his weather-beaten face. I handed him the coffee and bag of food. After a short hesitation, he took it.

He didn’t say anything audible to me, but his soft brown eyes spoke volumes. They told me he was grateful and he was a proud man in spite of his circumstances. Perhaps that is why I didn’t stay to watch him eat.

Subsequently, I found myself thinking about that stranger often, imagining his previous life and even inventing bits of dialogue between us. I thought about him when it rained, while I prepared a meal, when putting up holiday decorations, or while attending a social event.

I returned to that alley with my husband many times. We brought him a jacket, a shaving bag packed with sundries, a sleeping bag and food. Each time his eyes conveyed warm feelings to me. I didn’t know if he could speak English or if he just couldn’t speak at all.

I was going to ask someone I knew who worked at homeless shelter if they could help. Unfortunately, when I went to see the stranger, he was gone. It never occurred to me that he wouldn’t be there.

I felt a rush of emotions as I drove up and down the alley and streets searching for him to no avail. That was many years ago. I still ask myself why I didn’t do more.

All I can do now is to continue to pray for him and in remembrance of him to reach out to others in need. I believe I’m a better person for having met him.

The memory of that stranger has found shelter in my heart where I visit him and we have reflective conversations. In my heart, we are no longer strangers.

Yolanda Adele is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

I haven't had this many thoughts all week, why now that it's 2:30 am is my brain filled with useless information?

I am not sure why I felt the need to look out my upstairs window now. All I see are several other houses (all lights off), the occasional car zipping down the street, and one lone opossum exploring my driveway. I'm watching him intently like it matters where he's going. And that car that just drove away, where is he going at this hour?

This candle on my bookshelf looks like a tree in the moonlight. You know the best trees ever were the trees in the orchard, when I was a kid. We'd have crab apple wars and peach pitching contests. I wonder why my granddaughter is allergic to peaches.

My mind is racing about a book I've wanted to write for four years and wonder how I will ever get it finished if I can't seem to get it started. Maybe I really will start tomorrow with a designated time every day to write. I'm sure that will help.

Oh wait, I can't start tomorrow. I don't think I'll be sleeping any tonight and my two granddaughters will be here at 6 a.m.

I wonder what we can do for fun tomorrow. We got free passes to a couple of zoos when we went to the Science Museum. Maybe we can..... o,h never mind, it will be too hot for me to spend the day at the zoo.

Why do I have such trouble sleeping at night? I have for years. I wonder how sweet Ms. Johnson is doing. She lives in that house right there. She's blind and lives alone in that big house. I suppose there's never any lights on there. I never noticed.

Wow, my plants in the front yard look really nice. The moon is so perfectly full tonight. Boy, my oldest grandchild Elizabeth loves stargazing with the big telescope on the driveway at the river. The sky is so clear there that it's more light with stars that dark with nothingness. That reminds me of a passage I either heard or read once that was talking about the sky being so full of stars that it looked like "little holes in the floor of heaven."

Speaking of holes, I wonder if the corner donut shop still sells donut holes. They were so yummy. When my son was in junior high, we'd stop on the way to school and grab a donut. His was always blue. Who eats blue donuts? Chocolate? Yes. Maple? Yes. Vanilla? Yes. What the heck is blue?

We'd always pass the same Mustang on our way out of the donut shop parking lot, and my son would wave to the pretty young girl inside also being driven to school. I can't believe they have been married for 19 years already. Where did all that time go?

Time — is it morning yet? I think I might be a little crabby tomorrow. Do you know that Sister Cornelius, second grade, was the crabbiest person I ever knew? She had to be 100 years old back then. Her and that darned yardstick. I think she whacked me everyday!

Now Mr. Chichecki was the coolest teacher I ever had. I had him for both 6th and 7th grade. He taught both. I loved him! Now who in the world fails kindergarten? Yes, I really did. Of course there was a really good explanation for it.

Why do I care about this now? Can't I think about all these very important things in the daytime like most human beings? I wonder how many human beings there are in the world. I wonder how many of them are leading a happy life. And what the heck is the meaning of life anyway? Why are we here?

I should buy new bedding for this room. I wonder what color I like. Should I change the bedding in my room too or just leave it? Do I really care enough?

I wonder if…OK, this is just stupid. I need some sleep. I wonder if those Sleep Number beds are any good?

Why won't my brain shut off? It would be different if I was solving some world problems.

Nope, no world problem solutions, just donut holes. Story of my life.

Gail Earl is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

Every week I cut my husband’s hair. I have done this for over 50 years. Each time while I’m cutting, another vision comes to my mind. One that I will never forget and honestly never want to.

Let me start at the beginning. I got my Michigan cosmetology license when I was 16 and worked in 3 different beauty shops. My dad was very willing to let me cut his hair.

Dad was very particular about his hair. He enjoyed many different looks as far as his hair was concerned. The one constant that he always insisted on was that his hair be neatly trimmed over his ears. Never a shaggy hair hung over his ear.

Dad was very much into fashion and absolute good grooming. He loved fancy suits and shoes and believed that no outfit would be complete without a fresh shave and trim. The fresh trim over his ears meant a lot to him. In his mind, a proper man would never allow anything but.

When we moved to California, I went back to school and got my cosmetology license. I got married and the tradition of cutting hair continued. My husband, Dale, and my dad were very good buddies. Every Saturday morning, we would go to my mom and dad’s house early. I’d trim their hair, then the two of them would run around Santa Monica doing errands. They would go and get shoe shines, go to car dealers and look at cars, go to the marina and look at boats, and go to the butcher’s and pick up a fresh supply of meat for the week. Usually they’d stop for a hot dog on their way back home. It was a Saturday morning routine that they shared for many years, each starting with a haircut.

Dad’s facial hair and the hair on his head went through many changes. He embraced keeping up with new looks. He was a professional man so his only restriction was that it was neat and clean.

So today as I cut my husband’s hair, I am remembering Dad’s last haircut. I remember knowing how important it was, both to him and to me.

It was 1993. Mom and Dad had moved to Palm Springs after they retired. Dad had another heart attack and they were sitting in the back seat as a neighbor drove them to the hospital. Dad died, stuck in traffic on the freeway.

All of us kids raced to the hospital to be with mom. Of course, we went through all of the typical absolute grief. We decided that each of us kids would go into the room where dad was alone and say our final goodbyes. As I stood there talking with dad it just struck me to the core how disheveled he looked. I took my comb and scissor from my purse and trimmed over his ears.

Dad was a beautiful man.

Gail Earl is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

Mom was working at the glass factory. I had the whole day to myself, though she called randomly to check on me. She worried a lot.

Once I tried to explain I had been in the bathroom when she called. She said, ‘That’s no excuse!’

Across the street from our house lived two sisters. Jane was 10 like me and Ida 12. The sisters were latchkey kids also.

On a hot summer afternoon that seemed to slowly idle by, I was on my perch at the top of our porch step wondering if a person could actually shrivel up and die of boredom. Then like an answered prayer Ida shouted at me, “Hey kid, do ya wanna come over and play hide and seek with us? We got cold lemonade!”

I followed them to their backyard. It was overrun with tall weeds and rusted junk. Next to the house lay the cellar door. Ida opened it.

“Kid, you’re first,” Ida demanded.

“My name is Soledad.”

“Whatever, go down there and count to a hundred before coming out to look for us.”

“When we’ve all had a turn we’ll get some cool lemonade,” Jane promised.

“Okay,” I answered shyly. I slowly went down the narrow steps. Suddenly, the door slammed shut, startling me. I lost my footing and bounced down the rest of the steps like a rubber ball, landing face first on the cold dirt floor. I screamed, “Help!”

From the side wall vents I heard the girls shriek with laughter.

I couldn’t tell if my eyes were open or shut. I held my hands in front of my face…nothing. Oh, God. Did the fall blind me, as my mortal self lies in this pool of blackness? No! I managed to get up.

There was a strong odor of insecticide. I waved my hands to cut through the cobwebs I felt on my head and face. I’d heard of people going mad in this kind of inkiness. Mad! That reminded me of what Mama was going to be if I died here without food or lemonade and wasn’t home to answer the phone. I pictured her standing over my corpse saying, “I told you to stay in the house. See what happens when you don’t mind me!”

“Ida, we better let her out. Mom called, she is on her way home.”

Dang it! “Okay, Jane. On three let’s unlock the door and run in the house.”

I turned in the direction of the rattling sound of the lock and found the steps. I pushed the door several times with my shoulder before it swung open. As I bolted across the street I managed to pull the yarn off my neck that my house key was attached to.

I ran up the stairs two at a time. As soon as I opened the door the phone rang. I picked up the receiver.

“ Nina, what are you up to?”

“Nothing!”

“There’s some frozen lemonade in the freezer. Why don’t you fix it for yourself?”

“I’m not in the mood for lemonade, Mama.”

“Okay. Stay out of trouble. Bye.”

I hung up the phone and returned to my perch at the top of our porch and wondered how many people die in cellars.

Yolanda Adele is a member of the writing class offered through the Cerritos College Adult Education Program. It is held off-campus at the Norwalk Senior Center.

The Munoz family lived across the street from us. Annie Munoz was a stay-at-home-mom, and she looked out for all the kids on the block. My daughter, Tracy, was the youngest, and was dubbed “The Baby” by Annie.

One day when Tracy was playing with Gilbert Munoz and his cousin, Greg, the three of them meandered across the street to our home. While there, they got the bright idea to share in a bottle of that cherry-candy-tasting St. Joseph Baby Aspirin.

They then left our house to go back to the Munoz residence. Meanwhile my live-in sitter, who spoke only Spanish, went running across the street to Annie with the near-empty baby aspirin bottle.

Annie began questioning the kids about the amount they may have consumed and got a different answer each time from each one of them. A serious situation became dire when at first it was just two fingers held up, then the count changed to three fingers, then it became four and frighteningly more.

Annie then decided that a trip to the emergency and getting their little tummies pumped was the answer to the problem.

She called me at work, and I left for home immediately.

At the Emergency Room, the “proof of the pudding” was that the kid who said he had the least amount (Gilbert) actually had the most.

That was about fifty years ago, and even today when Munoz family members see Tracy, they still refer to her as “The Baby,” and we still laugh about the day of the baby aspirin caper.

Sharon Benson Smith is a member of the writing class at Norwalk Senior Center.

For almost three days, my husband and I have been going crazy. There has been a mystery at our house that’s completely taken over our lives.

The other morning at 6 a.m., my husband Dale was in the driveway putting his things in the car to go to work. He came back in to get one last cup of coffee for the road, and I asked him if there was a firetruck in front of our house. He said no, left for work and I thought no more about it.

Well off and on (mostly on) all day I kept hearing this really loud siren. It was a wind-up siren followed by three loud beeps. Every time I heard it I ran outside to see where it was coming from. I saw cars going up the street and people leaving for work, but no apparent sign of a firetruck.

After several hours of it, I thought it must be someone’s alarm either on their car or in their house. All day I just kept thinking how stupid it would be to have that kind of alarm. I ran from my front yard to my back a million times because I couldn’t tell if it was coming from out front or from the block behind me. In the house it echoed and bounced off walls so I couldn’t tell the direction it came from.

When Dale came home, it continued throughout the entire night. It woke us with a start several times. The next day we walked the neighborhood looking at everyone strangely and looking at all the cars to see if perhaps it was a motion detector being set off every time a car went by. We asked our neighbors and they said no, they hadn’t heard it. Now we were on day three and going crazy.

We ran like fools trying to chase down this sound. Now mind you, this wasn’t a soft noise. It sounded like a firetruck in your driveway kind of noise. After two days and two nights of it, we had gone mad.

On the third morning I told Dale that I didn’t know, didn’t care, was not going to use up one more brain cell trying to figure out the mystery. I tried very hard to ignore it, but some things you just can’t. I was about to call the police and ask for their help. This had gone on at intervals of from every 5 to 15 minutes the entire time.

Over and over we had the same conversations, “Which way is it coming from? Did you hear it from upstairs? Could you hear it from the street? Did you see anyone leaving? Do you think it’s on the block behind us?” In the street it sounded like you had your hand on the truck, it was that loud. By this time we thought that the both of us must be crazy because no one else heard it.

We sat in our recliners totally stumped and half mad that we were living in this nightmare and couldn’t get out of it.

All of the sudden, Dale jumped up and ran across the room. He opened the cupboard under the wet bar and pulled out a toy fire truck. This truck hasn’t been looked at or played with in about three years. Dale pushed each of the 4 sound buttons and none of them had the right sound effect. We were immediately stumped and disappointed that we had not found the culprit.

Dale made sure the switch was flipped to off and just set it on top of the wet bar. As we sat in disbelief at our inability to track the noise, we sat shaking or heads. A few minutes of silence were followed by “SIREN…beep beep beep” a random noise, not one of the four programmed noise effects on the toy. He took out the batteries.

We were driven to the brink of madness. Besides being easily amused, apparently, we are just as easily confused.

I remember this home with love. It was a large home directly across from the elementary school. My brother and sister already went to this school and I definitely remember the excitement I felt knowing that I, too, would get to go there very soon. I walked with my mother across the street every day to pick them up and I felt like soon I would join the club.

Our house was a very large home with many rooms and an attic than ran the entire length of the house. There was a big old staircase in one of the rooms that lead up to the attic. We were allowed to play up there so my girlfriend Lauren and I spent almost every day playing-out adventures, playing hide and seek, and dressing in old clothes found in big trunks.

There were stacks of boxes, suitcases filled with dresses, hat racks and shoe racks. There was a large full-length mirror leaning against the wall so we were always able to check our outfits. I remember having tea parties up there. If this attic could talk it would tell of the many hours that filled our imagination and how completely, the giggles of two little girls echoed in the walls.

The basement was also a destination of fun. There was a big dark room that held coal for the furnace. There was a small window where a truck could come and dump the coal into this bin. This room was a dark scary place that we would run past in order to get to another small room that was only big enough for a mattress on the floor. We had many books piled on the mattress and we loved to lay around and read our books in there. It felt like a clubhouse.

In the basement there was a wringer washing machine. We spent many hours playing bank and passing our play money through the wringer, passing it from one person to another. There was also a laundry shoot where the dirty clothing would be dropped from upstairs, down the shoot and into a large laundry basket.

Under the staircase, my younger sister and I would drape a blanket to cover the entrance and pretend that it was our house. We would sneak upstairs and take one of the kitchen drawers and slide it perfectly into place under the bottom stair. This would be our food locker. We’d fill it with slices of bread or cookies or what ever else we could pilfer without being noticed. Oh, that basement filled our imagination.

Our kitchen was a large room that taught is about working together. My brother and two sisters and I formed an assembly line each night and did the dinner dishes. Don would wash, Sharon would dry, she’d hand the dish off to Jan, and she’d hand it to me and I’d put it on the counter. Mom would then put it up where it belonged. I have fond memories of that time we spent together learning to work as a team.

In that same kitchen I remember bobbing for apples in a big galvanized tub. I mostly remember all the laughter in that room.

Our dining room was a large room with shiny wooden floors. There were two built-in cabinets with glass doors on them, one on each side of the room. Mom kept all of her very special dishes and crystal on display. We loved to look at all the pretty things behind glass and were taught that we were never allowed to open the doors.

There was a large wooden buffet along one wall that stored all the fancy dishes we used for holidays and special parties. A lovely white doily ran the length of the buffet. On top stood a big opened bible on a stand, surrounded by two large bunches of purple flowers from our yard. The whole middle of the room was filled with a huge table surrounded by twelve chairs. I can still see the giant turkey that sat in the middle, all golden brown.

Grandma would come from the nursing home that she lived in and sit with us for all our holiday meals. I remember dad leading our prayers and giving thanks around that table.

Our living room had a big stone fireplace. We all loved to sit around and watch the fire burn as dad told stories. Mom would bath us after dinner and send us one by one out to dad on the sofa. We’d listen to the story as we waited for the next sibling to arrive in their pajamas.

Mom would take all the laces out of our shoes, scrub them and line them up on the window sill to dry for the next day. After that mom met us in the living room and combed our hair and tied it in rags or pin curls so we would all be nice and curly by morning. By the time she was done with all of that, the stories were about finished and it was time for bed.

This house has so many good memories. If the house itself could talk it would say that love lived here.